


Can't Run Away

by mommymuffin



Series: Breathe Me [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post Season 2 Canon Divergent, Pre-Slash, Protective Derek, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-02 20:42:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mommymuffin/pseuds/mommymuffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a good thing Stiles has Derek's phone number--he's going to need it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. From the Silence

**Author's Note:**

> Back by popular demand: Part Two! Or half of it anyway. I'm well underway on the second chapter for this one, so, fingers crossed that life doesn't hit me in the face, it shouldn't be too long before I post it. Part Three to follow.
> 
> Holy moly, when I started writing this I was not planning on plot. But, would you look at that, there it is. How did that happen? Anyway. This is officially post-season 2 canon divergent. Tags will be updated with chapter 2 so be sure to check again when/if you come back.
> 
> Edit: OMG I did not realize that none of my formatting (basically the italics) had copied over. This has been remedied. My sincerest apologies. Nothing in the story has changed, only the formatting. Wow, I feel dumb.

_In the mall being followed help_

Derek steps into the Beacon Hills Mall six minutes later and takes a deep whiff of the air. He finds what he’s looking for easily. Stiles’ scent is lingering on a purse that Stiles would have no business buying at a kiosk near the front doors; buried in the fabric of a fake plant’s leaves next to a bench he didn’t sit on; wrapped around a cardboard cutout that looks like it’s been bumped into. It's obvious that Stiles has left a scent trail for him to follow. And follow it he does.

He’s led into Sears and he hears Stiles’ heartbeat as soon as he hits the appliances section. He finds the teen idly inspecting a vacuum cleaner as a sales representative rattles off a spiel about maneuverability and suction power.

Stiles sees the sales woman’s face drop into something like complete terror, her eyes caught on something over his shoulder, a beat before he notices that someone is suddenly standing behind him.

He flinches, hard enough to smack the vacuum loudly, and then serenely turns to the Sears employee, who is still gaping in mute fear at Derek. He coos, “Could you give us a minute?”

She nods and scurries away as fast as her sensible black pumps will take her.

Stiles rounds on Derek and hisses, “If you didn’t look like a serial killer before, you certainly do now. Can you not glare like that? You're going to make some poor kid cry in the middle of Sears.”

Derek relaxes the muscles in his face. Minutely.

Stiles drawls, “Well, now you look more like regular serial-killer you...”

“You said you were being followed,” Derek says lowly.

Stiles glances around the store briefly before leaning close, looking at the vacuum and putting a hand on it like he’s describing the machine’s merits to Derek. “Do you notice anyone?”

Derek takes a moment. He lifts his nose and uses the excuse of popping his neck to scent the air on both sides. His keen eyes scan the room and he doesn’t spot anyone outright, doesn’t pick up a scent that seems unusual.

“No.”

Stiles frets, worries his bottom lip between his teeth, and whispers, “I swear there was someone following me. It _felt_ like I was being followed, like there were eyes on me."

“I believe you,” Derek says.

Stiles looks at him sharply, an almost defensive look on his face, mistrust apparent in the crease of his brow, the unhappy curve of his mouth. He clearly doesn't think Derek would accept his words so easily.

Derek doesn’t tell Stiles that he believes him because he can smell the fear hanging off of the boy, can hear the sound of his nails scratching the inside of his jeans pockets as he curls and uncurls his fingers in some sort of nervous pattern, can see the way the right corner of his mouth is drawn tight in an unconscious show of _afraid_.

Derek doesn’t tell Stiles that he’d believe him even without any of these things.

The werewolf’s face is carefully blank and Stiles relaxes his frown and says, “Let’s get out of here. We can continue this conversation away from normal ears.”

Derek nods and reaches an arm around Stiles and _sticks his hand in Stiles’ jeans pocket._

“What are you—“

Derek leans in and says into Stiles’ ear, “Who do you want me to pretend to be? A friend from _school_? Your _drug-dealer_ maybe?”

Stiles makes a face. “I see your point...sad that drug-dealer would be the most believable out of the three. You really need to work on your image, man. ”

Derek harrumphs and guides them out of the store.

Stiles knows Derek can hear his accelerated heartbeat, smell his nervousness, see his blushing ears. He stupidly feels the need to defend himself. “It is not normal for me to have someone’s hand on my ass and anything that my teenage body does in reaction to your hand on my ass is entirely _not_ my fault.” He maybe could have phrased that better.

Derek raises an eyebrow at him and, being a tremendously awful jerk, life-saving aside, leans in and huffs a hot breath over Stiles’ ear. Stiles’ knees give out. He stumbles and Derek’s hand moving up to his waist is the only thing that keeps him standing. God bless werewolf strength and curse it doubly. Stiles wishes that he could retaliate somehow, trip Derek or _something_ , but he knows he would only trip himself, which would result in him falling down and Derek standing there smirking like an asshole as he let him fall that time, because he would _definitely_ let him fall that time. So, instead he fumes all the way to the Jeep.

“Where’s the Camaro?” Stiles asks as they both climb in.

“I ran here. It was faster.”

Stiles looks impressed for a blink, but then the doors are shut and the conversation turns back to the matter at hand.

“So, you didn’t smell anyone? Any _thing_?”

“No. Just humans.”

Stiles grows thoughtful for a moment and then says, “Maybe it was just a normal human following me.” His face quickly turns into a grimace. “Oh, god, what if it’s a stalker? I don't want a stalker. That is not an okay thing. Especially if it's a stalker like Matt and they have some sort of supernatural killing machine at their beck and call. That is super not okay."

Derek's lip curls up in a silent snarl at the prospect.

Stiles wiggles his thumbs together, arms braced over the steering wheel, and considers, “Well...it _could_ be a normal stalker, right?”

Derek gives Stiles a look.

“Yeah, since when is that our luck?” Stiles sighs. "Hunter, maybe?"

"Maybe," Derek concedes.

"Maybe thinking they can use me to get to you guys." Stiles' eyes squint when he grimaces. "That did not go well for me the last time."

"What?" Derek asks.

Stiles glances at him and it's guilty. Guilty and sorry. Sorry that he let that slip. Stiles looks back through the windshield and his twiddling thumbs have stilled under the weight of his accidental confession.

"Guess you never heard about that, huh?"

"Heard about what?" Derek snarls, and it's a snarl. He didn't mean for it to be a snarl.

"Gerard took me," Stiles says. "The night of the lacrosse championship, when Jackson killed himself on the field and everyone was running around like crazy." The teen shrugs. "It wasn't so bad really. I mean...he let me go and all...unlike…"

Stiles trails off and the watery scent of sadness, the way the air smells just before it rains, fills the car to flooding.

"Like Erica and Boyd," Derek finishes.

Stiles nods.

Derek thinks back to that night, and really there were too many things going on, too many things to keep track of, his freshly resurrected uncle breathing down his neck on top of Gerard's twisted plan barely half of it. The one thing he had overlooked that night had been the fragile human boy who had driven head first into the mess of it all. Literally. Stiles, who was always so loud that it was hard to tell what was happening underneath the noise. Stiles, who had been left to fend for himself so many times. Stiles, who had smelled like bitterness while he made breakfast for his father and Derek.

"Your face…" Derek says and it echoes in his head. "The cut on your lip...and your cheek."

Stiles' mouth wrinkles in a sorry excuse for a smile.

"I thought…" Derek says, but stops himself, redirects. Tells the truth. "No. I didn't think. I didn't think about where those marks had come from."

Stiles shrugs weakly. "No one did. Except Dad and Lydia. And they didn't even know what was going on. Even Scott didn't say anything about them." Stiles scoffs. "Of course, I'm starting to realize just how very bad my _best friend_ is at noticing when I'm in pain."

Derek can't respond. Again. He can never find the right thing to say to Stiles. Can hardly find _anything_ to say half the time. When it's not anger or frustration or demands, Derek doesn't know how to communicate with the boy, who burns so bright, Derek fears he may burn out too quickly, a bright flash that fades and dies in an instant.

Derek thinks of the still silence in the car the night of Stiles' panic attack and thinks maybe the boy is already starting to fade.

No.

Stiles remains silent, stares at his idle thumbs. He won't say anything.

_No._

And it's all Derek can do to keep from screaming.

“Drive home,” Derek says, looking away from Stiles. “I’ll make sure you get inside.”

Stiles nods and puts the key in the ignition and turns it.

They peel out of the parking lot and Derek barely remembers to check the side mirror for any suspicious persons.

There are no people in the parking lot.

 

 

Stiles doesn’t sleep well that night. As soon as he slips into dreams he feels someone’s eyes on him. It’s like they’re picking his skin off of him, like they’re running their fingers through his exposed muscles dipping in between the sinews and tendons, digging until they reach bone. Stiles is powerless to run from the eyes that feel like fingers. He can’t move his feet, can barely move his lungs to get air in them. He stands there, quivering in the dark, choking on his own fear, listening to dark laughter, and waiting to shake apart completely.

 

 

It doesn’t surprise Stiles when Derek is in his room the next day after school. It sort of pleases him actually—he hadn't even texted him—but he pushes that thought aside.

“Hey,” Stiles says, setting his backpack down. “I know _you’ve_ probably been stalking me all day, but has anyone else?”

Derek shakes his head slowly.

“Good,” Stiles says, but he smells like worry. He smells like fear.

Derek gets up in his space lightning fast, stomping down hard on those dreadful feelings welling up in the teen, and says, “I _will find them._ ”

Stiles blinks at him, too taken aback to hold onto any of his apprehension. Then, his emotions spike briefly and the room smells like desperation and flickering hope. “ _Okay_ ,” he says, accepting and trusting and all the things people like Derek don’t deserve.

But, Stiles doesn't seem to see it that way. Doesn't look at Derek like he thinks he shouldn't be there. He never has. Even when Stiles used to bemoan all of their dealings with Derek, he never pushed Derek away. Never told him to leave. Never left him to die.

_Why don't you leave me?_

Stiles has never made any sense.

_You should leave me._

Derek heads for the window. "Don't go out alone."

Stiles nods slowly. Derek is out the window and Stiles rushes after him to try to catch a glimpse of the werewolf's back, but he's already gone.

 

 

A week passes. Nothing happens.

When Stiles enters his room after school, he gives Derek an apologetic smile and says, “I must have imagined it.”

“It’s only been a week. It could—“

“Thank you, Derek,” Stiles says cutting him off. “Really. Thanks. But...I must just be paranoid. You can stop looking for...no one apparently.”

Bitterness is sharp in the air and Derek can see Stiles taking a nosedive into the deep, crushing darkness; he has a clear view of the falling boy from the very bottom. But, Derek doesn't want that, doesn't want Stiles to join him down here where the warmth left ages ago. He wants to push Stiles back toward the light.

“Stiles—“

Derek gets cut off again.

“Just go, Derek. Thank you. But, just...go.”

Stiles is looking down, away. He’s miserable, smells it, looks it, _feels_ it. Derek wants to say something. Can’t.

_He never knows what to say._

He hates himself for being unable to offer a hand to pull Stiles up. He's all too familiar with the fact that you can only drag someone down when you yourself are trapped at the bottom, rotting away with all the other horrible people.

So, he leaves. Leaves Stiles standing alone in his room smelling miserable and needing someone to stay.


	2. From the Screaming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it continues. 
> 
> As I said previously, this is officially post-season 2 canon divergent and tags have been updated. 
> 
> Part Three to follow...eventually...
> 
> Also, big thanks to everybody who keeps coming back to read the next part! Y'all are awesome!!!

Stiles is still having those dreams. Every night. They won’t stop. Even though he hasn’t felt eyes on him when he’s awake in over a week, the dreams are still there, cold and haunting and gripping his shoulder with phantom fingers in the daytime.

He doesn't tell Derek.

Stiles doesn’t know what any of it means. He's thought on it for long hours, done his research for longer hours still, and come up with zilch.

Maybe the dreams don't mean anything. Maybe it’s all just a part of his hyper vigilance, some sort of side effect that’s taken root in his subconscious. Maybe he really is cracking up.

It’s been three days since Derek has stopped monitoring him. Stiles has a weird feeling when he walks into his house that afternoon. Like something's off. Like something's happened. He doesn't spot anything subtly out of place, or anything outright alarming for that matter, on the ground floor; he's sure if someone was going to attack him they would have done it by now, so he heads upstairs. He glances in each direction even as something is telling him that what he's looking for is not in the hall.

He opens the door to his room and that something was right. On his bed lays a single white rose. Stiles' breath hitches, he can already feel the onslaught of panic swirling with the initial spike of fear, but he tamps down on it and approaches the bed.

A quick glance at the window shows no signs it's been opened, latch still turned to locking. Nothing else in the room, or the house, would indicate any sort of breaking and entering. But, somehow someone got in. Someone was in his room. Someone who didn't need doors or windows to enter buildings.

Stiles' eyes stay affixed to the rose as he edges even closer. There's no note, no nothing, just the rose. And it's white. Stiles doesn't know what that means, but it can't be good. It can't be.

Who left this?

The stalker? But, how? It must be supernatural.  Derek hadn't picked up  any non-human scents at the mall though. Maybe it didn't have a scent, like the kanima. But still,  there had been no sign of it, not a single trace since Stiles felt eyes on him at the mall that day.

The sudden thought strikes his brain like lightning: it was waiting for Derek to leave.

Oh, god. _Definitely_ supernatural, then.

Stiles’ trembling hands find their way into his pocket, pull out his phone, dial the number he needs.

“Stiles.”

“Derek.” And Stiles knows his voice is shaking.

An urgency comes through in Derek’s voice. “Stiles, what is it? Where are you?”

“H-home...there’s a...a...”

“A what, Stiles? What is it?” Derek demands and there’s wind rushing through the phone, a car door being opened and slammed closed, an engine roaring to life.

Stiles doesn’t answer him. He’s too focused on the flower. It’s like a bright light, white against all the black. Stiles can’t look away, can’t stay away. He’s being pulled in, closer and closer. His movements are jerky. He wants to stop even as he doesn’t want to. He wants to touch the rose.

Derek is shouting through the phone, but Stiles’ hand sags away from his ear as the other one comes up to reach. He’s shaking so hard, he can hear his teeth chatter.

He wants to touch the rose.

His fingers are just breaths away from it now. He can almost grasp it. All he has to do is reach across the breaths, destroy that last bit of space.

_He wants to touch the rose._

Just that last breath.

A scream explodes from Stiles' lungs. The rose erupts into a mass of thorny stems and grabs a hold of him; the stems wrap themselves around Stiles hand and grow, multiply; his hand disappears under the onslaught of sharp, dark green that hooks into his skin and pierces deep; his skin bleeds from every puncture on every inch of delicate skin that the plant devours as it crawls up to his elbow.

The cell phone is abandoned so the fingers of his other hand can be used to fight the clawed, creeping vines. It is useless. The blunt, human nails can cut nothing. The weak, human grip can hold nothing. The skinny, human boy can do nothing.

Stiles panics when the tendrils latch onto his other hand, dragging it into the mass of fine, bloody points. It encircles his wrist and pulls tighter, constricts. Stiles is lost to it, then--the slick-smooth feeling of complete panic, like trying to grip a handhold on blank slate, slipping, slipping, slipping-- _gone_.

 

 

Stiles wakes up and he feels warm in the best sort of way possible. He is in absolutely no pain.

"Oh god, I'm dead," he rasps and it's only then as the burn scratches at his throat that he realizes how much he must have screamed.

"You're not dead," a voice rumbles beside him,  _against_  him.

And it's Derek.

Beautiful, wonderful, sweet Derek.

"Oh," Stiles says dumbly, numbly. He's not sure how to feel in this situation, so he doesn't. Let's the hollow space inside him stay that way. It's like the last time he leaned on Derek like this, except Stiles has a choice now. He chooses to leave the spaces empty.

"Where's the rose?" Stiles mumbles. His cheek is pressed against Derek's chest and he can't speak quite clearly for it, but he is so very disinclined to move. Besides, Derek will understand him.

There's a pause, then Derek asks, "What rose?"

"The rose…" Stiles clears his throat and what comes out next sounds much more like a human voice. "The rose that attacked me--god, that sounds pathetic."

"It wasn't a rose when I got there." The tone in Derek's voice is dark. It sounds angry and threatening, like it's trying to warn off some still lurking enemy.

"What was it then?"

"Vines. Covered in thorns. You were…encased in them."

Stiles shifts, tries to anyway, Derek won't let him sit up, won't take his hands off of him. One is wrapped around his back, tucked into his side. The other is slotted around the back of his neck, weighing, but not pressing.

It comes to Stiles why there's no pain.

"How bad is it?" he whispers. He wonders how long Derek has been sitting here sucking away his pain.

Derek takes a long moment before he says, "I don't know how you're going to explain it to your dad."

Stiles' chest stumbles over his next breath, the air rattles around in his lungs like a wire tumbleweed with no where to go. He can feel the uneasy shakiness of too many emotions trying to fill him up too suddenly. Derek's thumb starts stroking across his neck, all light pressure and reassurance. Stiles breathes.

"What did you do with…with the plant thing?" Stiles asks and if Derek notices him tucking his face further into Derek's chest, the werewolf doesn't comment on it. But his thumb stills and his hand shifts, feels like it's securing Stiles in place.

"Killed it, I think. It died when I ripped it off of you. Turned black and shriveled."

Stiles thinks about how cut up Derek's hands must have been. How he didn't stop digging Stiles out even as they bled.

"I'm hoping it's not eating your room right now," Derek adds and Stiles grows puzzled.

He turns his head enough to see past Derek's massive bicep and sees for the first time that they're in the animal clinic.

"Oh, god, I hope so, too…" Stiles says and settles back into Derek's chest, making no move to go check on the status of his bedroom.

"Your dad's not going to be home anytime soon, is he?" Derek asks and Stiles can tell that he's turned his head by the direction the sound travels. Derek's cheek rests on top of Stiles' head a beat later.

"No…It's a Friday. He'll be out all night."

Derek nods and some sort of short little breath forces its way out of Stiles at the feeling of friction it brings.

Stiles wants to look at his hands, his arms, his face. Wants to see how bad it is. He doesn’t think Derek will let him. Not until he has to.

Stiles says," I think...it waited for you to leave…to attack me."

Derek's grip on him tightens for a moment.

"I shouldn't have left," he says.

Stiles shakes his head, or attempts to from his position pinned to Derek. "I told you to leave. You did what I asked."

Derek doesn't say it out loud. Won't. Can't. But, he thinks it, thinks, _I'll never leave you again. Even if you ask. I won't make that mistake again._

A door opens, creaking heavily on its hinges. Derek's head lifts and Stiles turns as best he can to see who it is. Deaton is standing there and he doesn’t know why he thought it’d be Scott.

“Stiles,” Deaton is saying. “Glad to see you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

Stiles sort of shrugs and pulls his mouth far enough away from Derek to say clearly, “You'd have to get Derek to let go of me for me to tell  you that.”

Derek rumbles disapprovingly, deep in his chest, right beneath Stiles’ ear and it’s a sensation Stiles wants to fall into forever, like Alice down the well.

Deaton smiles indulgently and holds up a small, metal tin. “Stiles, do you remember the time I had you use mountain ash?”

Stiles doesn’t know what that has to do with anything, but says, “Yeah,” anyway.

“This is just like that.” Deaton waves the canister back and forth. “Believe it will work and it should help heal your wounds more quickly. Every time you apply it. And try to reinforce what I've already applied with your own belief. Okay?”

Stiles eyes the container skeptically, but nods. “Okay, Doc. If you say so.”

“Believe in it, Stiles,” Deaton says firmly and offers him the ointment.

Derek allows Stiles to lift an arm to take it. Stiles' gaze only lingers on his hand bandaged completely white for a moment before he accepts the salve. Derek is inexplicably pleased when Stiles tucks the arm right back where it was under Derek’s elbow.

Stiles fiddles with the tin for a moment, popping the lid and taking a whiff. It smells like eucalyptus.

"Stiles," Deaton calls his attention back, "do you have any idea who or _what_ could have done this to you?"

Stiles says, "No," and smells like misery served cold.

Derek speaks up. "There was someone following Stiles in the mall, little over a week ago. I didn't smell anything that wasn't human."

Deaton frowns pensively. "And Stiles was encased in vines when you found him?"

"It was a rose," Stiles says. "A white rose. Sitting on my bed when I got home. I...I wanted to touch it, even though I knew I shouldn't. It was like Sleeping Beauty being drawn to the spindle."

"That may well have been what it was," Deaton remarks.

"What, like a spell?" Stiles asks.

"An enchantment," Deaton asserts.

"So, someone was trying to kill me via an enchanted rose. Oh my god, I belong in a Disney film," Stiles bemoans.

"I don't think they were necessarily trying to kill you."

Stiles stares at Deaton flatly. "How could killing me not be the goal there?  I mean, I would have bled out if Derek hadn't…" Stiles trails off, goes quiet.

"Enchantment," Derek says. "Are we talking witch here? That would explain why I  could only smell humans."

"Witches don't smell like witches?" Stiles queries.

Derek answers, "They do if they're using magic. When they're not actively performing spells, they smell like regular humans."

"So, a witch attacked me. Why?"

"That I don't know," Deaton says. "Have you met anyone strange recently?"

"No," Stiles says, scanning his brain for any out of the ordinary people. "No one comes to mind."

“Well, for now let's worry about getting you healed. Derek, do you think you can get Stiles home?”

Derek gives Deaton a look that tells him that was a dumb question.

Deaton only smiles.

The vet reaches out a hand to help steady Stiles as the two stand. Derek’s arm slips around Stiles' waist. He doesn’t pull the other one over his shoulders this time. Derek is too sensitive of the deep wounds there to even touch it.

Stiles cradles his arms to his chest, grips the tin tightly, and lets Derek guide him out of the clinic. Deaton presses a sack full of clean bandages into Derek's hand before they make it out the door. With a nod and a thank you respectively, Derek and Stiles get in the Camaro and head for home.

Stiles stays unusually quiet. Derek frowns deeply when he realizes that Stiles' silence is not all that unusual of late.

When they get up to Stiles' room all traces of the plant and blood spilled are gone.

"That's probably not good…" Stiles says.

Derek inhales and smells nothing that isn't from the teen's daily life, not even the lingering scent of blood. _Definitely_ not good.

"I...I didn't imagine it, did I?" Stiles asks and looks at his wound dressings. He can feel them everywhere, he's wrapped practically head to foot. He can't have imagined something giving him so many wounds.

"No. You definitely didn't." Derek doesn't tell Stiles that the carpet had squelched when he'd stepped on it, wet with the blood of the boy lying on it. No, it had definitely been real.

Stiles sits on his bed and it's only then that he notices he's wearing sweatpants. He wasn't wearing sweatpants earlier. Or a black shirt.

"Whose clothes are these?"

"Mine," Derek answers. "It's the spare set I keep in my trunk. Yours were...Deaton threw them away."

"Oh." Stiles desperately tries not to feel warm and fuzzy about the fact that he's wearing Derek's clothes. He fails at it so completely, he might as well be a damn Care Bear.

Derek drags the single chair beside the bed closer before taking a seat in it. He regards Stiles carefully for a moment. Stiles finally becomes uncomfortable enough to ask, "What?"

"Your breathing is normal," Derek says by way of answer, which really doesn't answer anything at all.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Stiles asks. "I'm not going to have another panic attack, if that's what you're worried about. One per day is enough, thanks."

Derek shakes his head.

"Then, what's the dealio, Derek? Your intense werewolf stare is starting to creep me out."

Derek's eyes flick away. It's a long moment before he says quietly, "You weren't breathing when I got here."

Stiles raises his eyebrows up high on his forehead. "At all?"

A solemn shake of his head.

"Did you--" Stiles cuts off like his tongue shriveled up in his mouth. Of course, he did. How else do you revive a person who's not breathing? It's not like there's any medical equipment lying around a teenage boy's bedroom.

Stiles swallows thickly. He doesn't know what to do with the knowledge that Derek Hale performed CPR on him, but he certainly can't look at Derek right this moment. Stiles wants to touch his lips, but knows that would be obvious.

"You should sleep," Derek says, also looking anywhere but the boy's direction.

"Okay," Stiles mumbles and crawls into bed,  turns over, faces away from the man beside him.

Derek settles back into the chair, listens to Stiles heartbeat.

Stiles hopes he can fall asleep before his cuts make themselves known again. He's not sure what the time limit on werewolf pain-stealing is or how quickly it will come back, if it's gradual or all at once. He's exhausted down to his bones though and he doesn't think he'll have a problem falling asleep.

Ten minutes later and he's doubting himself.

Stiles is anxious, uncomfortable, his bandages itch, and he's so very aware of Derek sitting right behind him. His mind is whirring a hundred miles an hour and he just can't. Stop. _Thinking_. He's thinking about the fact that he almost died today and he doesn't even know _why_. He's thinking about how someone keeps slipping in and out of his room without a trace. He's thinking about the way Derek's arms felt around him in the clinic and the taste of lips that he'd missed. He's thinking about how that's twice now Derek has saved him from a panic attack. From himself.

Derek is so quiet behind Stiles, Stiles isn't even sure he's still there. Of course, he's there, he wouldn't leave, but Stiles suddenly wants to confirm this, wants to see him, wants to _touch_ him and know he's there, _always there_.

He debates with himself for a long while and finally after a vicious contest of whirlwind thoughts, Stiles flips over to face Derek again, he _has_ to. He opens his mouth to ask for something selfish. But, he freezes up, Derek's name suspended in his open mouth. Because what he was going to ask for is already there.

Derek's hand is laying on his bed, palm up and open and _there_. The werewolf's head is tipped back against the chair and he appears to be sleeping. Stiles knows he isn't though. And he knows Derek hears the pathetic, little shuddering breath Stiles takes as he moves his hand into Derek's. The bandages are rough around his digits as he laces them with Derek's and it's not the same. It's not the same. But, it's still good. And when Stiles squeezes tight, Derek squeezes back and doesn't let go until morning comes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> http://mommymuffin.tumblr.com/


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